Unique Forms of Continuity in Space by Umberto Boccioni

 

Reveille

BREAKFAST

Dark-headed coffee is a keen companion

Of depth and wit,

Finely calibrated scientific instrument.

Swinging his censer just below my nostrils,

He slays my logic with perfume.

“What crow has stolen your words?”

He asks. “Has your eloquence

Turned into baubles in his nest?”

I pay no attention to the ribbing.

He is too valuable a vizier.

I mine gold every morning.

I take my breakfast like a king—

To my right salted fish,

To my left steaming rice,

Fresh egg is the jester.

Butter, a bird, is eyeing the bread.

Milk dives smoothly into coffee.

Sugar disappears, memory of a dream.

A cock crosses swords with the day.

Things to do arrange themselves,

Tallest to shortest.

Digesting a bolus,

I rise ready to run the next marathon,

Wakeful as a bat, electric as a hawk.

 

Morning steps forward…

Morning steps forward, freshly washed, newly fed, tautly wound, a limber bow,

Ready to spring, tumble, wheel, pull at oars, throw the hammer, leap the long jump,

High kick, vault, cartwheel forward, lunge, Superman punch, elbow strike, grapple,

Throw, bound, mount a motorcycle, zip, zap, round and round the block,

Water ski, slicing the surface—fine fillets—smoothly, upswept, propelled by a parachute of air,

Sling saucers aloft, spinning pizza dough, snare them whirling on sticks, bob, bobble,

Hop, flip bowls from foot to head, head to foot, right to left, left, right, back again.

 

Hot fresh bread…

Hot fresh bread, breakfast time:

Fragrant, not a flower,

Warming, not a fire,

Lively, not a flame,

Soothing, not a salve,

Kindly, not a caress;

Dark honey wheat,

Black oat barley,

Sweet cinnamon raisin,

Savory apple walnut,

Ciabatta, Foccacia, Pita,

Bublik, Chapati, Pandesal—

Parmesan, Romano—two-cheese,

Sunflower, sesame, fennel—three-seed,

Every type of loaf

Bundled in brown wrapper,

Crackling in your embrace,

Steaming scented clouds,

Breathe deeply

Atop a mountain;

Billowing, fluffy blanket,

Pull it up,

Tuck it snug

Beneath your chin;

Bracing, poppy fireside,

Cross your arms,

Hold it to your heart.

Fed in deepest winter,

Bathed at height of summer,

Refreshed when day is dry,

Sheltered when life is wet,

Healed when you are pierced,

Becalmed…even after you are violently shaken,

Remade in hope,

Transformed in joy,

Nourished, uplifted…blessed:

Every good thing comes to you 

As a loaf of bread.

 

WORK

Work springs from bed, time ringing,

Switches off alarm, not clock, world,

Ticking, spinning, running, rushing—

Undresses, showers, splashes—

Sun, birds, window—towels, fluffy, dry—

Dresses, belt, tie, mirror, brushes hair,

Bounds for egg, rice, coffee—

Brushes teeth, brushes hair again,

Hops in car, drives, slows down, traffic—

Rain, wipers, left, right, metronome—

Signals, turns, parks, jumps out—at last!—

Guard, elevator button, fourth floor,

Hello, good morning, sits down, breathless,

Switches on computer, types—tik, tak,

Tikkity-tak—gets up, coffee maker—almost

No one here, checks calendar—holiday.

What gets you out of bed in the morning?

Three River Poems

 

THE RIVER

Yesterday the river was lapping at my feet like an old man tapping out a message about time flowing downward from hills remote as hawks.

Today he rises slowly, a momentous pulse pushing seaward, fed by faraway pistons.

At the waterside where air is fresh as a pear, a sweet mist glides forward like a perfumed wrist.

Islands of floating plants drift, joining into continents, rearranging in serpentine tattoos.

Beneath the surface glittery like so many exploding firecrackers, fish swirl, shadowy limbs of an athlete smoothly cutting back and forth.

Denizens gather at the riverbanks in spoonfuls, sprinkling laughter farther than droplets shot from spinning umbrellas.

Distantly a lizard pokes its head into the sun, jerking left and right, vainly divining a future obscured by brightness.

 

Sparkling river of silence…

Sparkling river of silence,

Traveler along a shadowy forest floor—

I drink deep draughts, lasting,

Of your overflowing stillness!

Tipping your goblet,

I taste your brightness

As floral wine

Swirling inside a crystal

And breathe in perfume.

Fingers of a spellbound existence

Stop my ears.

Awe, a thief, steals my voice.

Bereft of noise, I am

Transfixed as the moon

Hovering, windless night,

Balanced on the sword tip of time.

The world is motionless

As my spirit moves

And my stumbling heart is filled

By a presence…and quiet…

A quiet presence.

 

THE MOON AND RIVER AND SILENCE

                                       

Guided by the moon,

Traveling downriver,

I am enraptured by silence.

All I hear is, delicate, song of my oar

As it dips gently, emerges,

Streamlets, bright notes running down the edge

Of the blade, silver spoon, glistening.

I listen to the moon…

River, warbling bird…

Illumined by silence.

Crickets dare not crack their knuckles.

 

 

Mekong River, Cambodia

Two Sea Poems

 

THE SEA

Down the road a short distance the sea is crashing breakers.

I hear the soft rhythmic roar telling of a distant menace.

We live close enough to the beach to feel the breeze and smell it.

On a hot night it cools the house like a ghostly visitor.

Dark beams exude the odor of sand, old wood a salt fragrance.

Fish and shrimp, squid and snails are the gifts of our brooding neighbor.

We toss them in garlic and soy sauce, shaking them inside the pan.

We serve them steaming, feasting until our stomachs smile.

But in the blackness I cannot be safe enough to call the ocean friend.

He harbors in his belly gigantic aliens and swallows sailors alive.

I hold a match to a kerosene lamp to illumine scroll columns and chairs.

I gaze at the flickering yellow flame, warming within myself.

No one can control this behemoth, this restless surging animal.

If only I could capture this water and leash it to a post.

 

The ocean is a desert…

The ocean is a desert:

No water to drink,

No trees to rest,

No animals to ride.

The gull that glides

Above the waves

Is the faraway condor

Surveying the sand;

They are in their element.

We find no home

In the sea any more than

We sleep in the clouds.

 

 

...no home in the sea...

Five Poems about Time

 

THE CLOCK

We divide the clock

Into pie segments

To show, self-indulgently,

We are masters of time.

 

Serving up plates, we

Apportion hours a la carte,

Spearing minutes with a fork.

Wistfully, we sip on seconds.

 

We park our legs high

On a chair, lean back,

Saying, this year I will do this,

Next year that.

 

But time yields to no master:

Heedless brute, it is an

Inexorable mule,

Spinning sun, ruthless.

 

Only a cosmic force,

Colossal as stars collapsing,

Warping space like plastic

Has the arm to rein in time,

 

Rearing neighing stallion,

Bull kept at bay.

Time answers to no one.

We answer to time.

 

Already it holds us

On a leash, shortening:

We strain forward;

It pulls us in.

 

Helpless fish,

We must forsake fruit

Just beyond our reach.

And we are bound to tell time

 

Our narrative when it ends.

Now the clock strikes:

Bells ring, sonorous,

Pure as childhood,

 

Shining as youth,

Florid as love, 

Consummate as wisdom 

…the spring runs out.

The clock has come…

The clock has come

To tell the time.

He chimes to close

A line with rhyme,

End a stanza,

Chop chapters short—

A rifle volley,

A loud report,

Rushing winds,

Wistful bells,

Sacrificial flames,

Paper farewells.

So hasten to scatter

Blossoms of love—

Fading below,

Unforgotten above.

 

I love to listen to your resonant chimes…

I love to listen to your resonant chimes,

Echoing, full, round,

Collecting clear musical pools,

Bright waterfalls of sound.

I love to hear your brilliant bells

Singing, mountain stream,

Flowing concourse of luminous notes

Arranged to a liquid theme.

I love to hear your hammers strike,

Ripples across a lake.

If clock is water, water is life—

Reminder I am still awake.

CONSCIOUSNESS OF TIME

The sun wakes, bright as childhood.

Night sleeps, mountain shadows.

Seasons hurry, traveling rain.

Time ends, fragrance of fresh linen.

 

TIME IS NO MORE

The sun dwells in darkness.

The moon lives in light.

The owl hunts at daytime.

The falcon prowls at night.

The dead dines with the living.

The living dreams, awake.

The eternal is not the future.

The river of time is a lake.

 

 

Clock Tower of Manila City Hall

Three Ekphrastic Poems

 

PLANTING RICE

To Fernando Amorsolo

You capture the special quality

Of the light of our land—

Brilliant but blinding,

Vitalizing yet enervating,

Turning fields green

When the rains arrive,

Roasting grass brittle

When skies are dry.

Beneath broad sun hats,

Sheltered faces shine

As they labor cheerfully

In your pastoral idyll.

Truth be told, planting rice

Is like shoveling coal

In the boiler room,

Bowing constantly.

No matter, art is license

And vision is heritage

Of which we all partake:

We celebrate your genius.

Yellows, radiant pears,

Reds, multihued plums—

Your palette, a fruit bowl,

Vivid feast for hungry eyes.

Your virtuoso brushstrokes

Travel boldly all around,

Testifying to your mastery of oil,

Not to mention draftsmanship.

Your deep rich browns

Bind us to the soil.

Your radiant light

Keeps our sun blazing.

 

 

Planting Rice (1953) by Fernando Amorsolo

JEEPNEYS

To Vicente Manansala

who, made, this, work, of, art,

what, does, it, represent,

where, is, it, the, scene, we, see, that, is,

when, is, it, day, time, please,

why, is, it, abstract,

this, is, your, painting, isn’t, it,

how, do, you, paint, from,

orange, yellow, red,

green, blue, black,

white, yellow orange,

yellow green, blue green, from,

irregular, elliptical, prodigal,

brushstrokes, going, this, way,

that, way, every, which, way,

circles, inside, circles,

floating, half-moons,

overlapping, polygons,

broken, glass, so, many,

bits, and, pieces, of, it,

something, you, see,

but, we, do, not, see,

what, do, you, see, anyway,

wheels, roofs, pedestrians,

smoke, dust, grime,

traffic, air, pollution,

now, we, see, what, you, see,

yes, or, do, we, really, no,

no.

 

 

Jeepneys (1951) by Vicente Manansala

CRUCIFIED WOMAN BY ALMÜTH LUTKENHAUS-LACKEY 

Who do you say that I am?

You are the woman without property or inheritance rights, without the right to vote or to freedom of movement, to employment, health, or education, who is discriminated against because you are considered intrinsically inferior to males—

The object of controlling and manipulative behavior by males at home, school, or work, wherever gender discrimination exists,  

The object of their verbal bullying, threats, isolation, or blame, of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse,

The object of harassment by stalkers—vengeful, love obsessed, erotomanic, psychotic—

The wife, daughter, girl, or mother raped or forced into sexual slavery during wartime, the victim of a state strategy of aggression,

The victim of human trafficking, kidnapped, imprisoned, and then coerced into commercial pornography or prostitution,

The victim of forced marriage by kidnapping, of forced pregnancy, of state breeding programs,

The victim of the honor killings undertaken whenever a woman resists a prearranged marriage or wants to divorce her abusive husband,

The widow killed by ritual suicide or murder,

The child compelled to marry against her will,

The child victim of rape, traumatized for life,

The young woman assaulted by female genital mutilation,

The female infant put to death because of religious, cultural, social, and economic discrimination, killed by drowning, suffocation, starvation, exposure, neglect, physical abuse, poisoning, whatever works,

The fetus aborted because of the obnoxious cultural preference for male children,

The poor and elderly woman convicted of witchcraft, drowned, hanged, or burned at the stake,

The woman demeaned by body shaming, fat shaming, all forms of sexist ridicule— 

 

You are the Christ.

Crucified Woman (1976) by Almüth Lutkenhaus-Lackey